


Where Sea Winds Blow

by lahijadelmar



Category: Pirates of the Caribbean (Movies), Pirates of the Caribbean: Dead Man's Chest (2006)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Canon Rewrite, F/M, Multi, Rewrite
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-09-24
Updated: 2015-09-24
Packaged: 2018-04-23 04:54:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 7,794
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4863908
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lahijadelmar/pseuds/lahijadelmar
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He's a disgraced former Commodore, she's a pirate growing in her infamy. Like intersecting rivers, both are fated to return to the sea. Re-imagined DMC scenarios, focusing primarily on Norrington and Anamaria and their relationship. Also a rewrite of the original fic, published in 2009 on FF.Net.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter One

**Author's Note:**

> I'm honestly not sure what the direction of this story will be. As stated in the summary, it was published as a multichapter fic back in 2009 and it recently came back to my awareness. The original plan was to just add subtle changes to make the writing smoother but in this process I realized that there are a lot of structural problems too; scenes lag, tension/build up is rushed, the plot isn't as compelling as it could be. I'm realizing that this is going to have to be much more of an overhaul than I had planned and I'm very short on time these days. For this reason, I'm uploading the first four chapters to see what kind of interest there would be in a story like this, if any. If people generally like it then I'll continue forward with the project; if not, I'll put that time towards other things. I have a rather special place in my heart for this story, despite the shortcomings, and it would be fun to give it some new life. Kudos, feedback, everything is appreciated.

“It’s not that impressive of a thing.”

            It was true that there wasn’t much that could impress Mr. Gibbs, even on a good day and despite how much he had grown to admire Anamaria he wouldn’t spare such apathy for her new ship.

Jack wondered if it wasn’t attempt to make them both feel better about the _Pearl_ in lieu of Anamaria’s superior _Rising Sun._ Both men knew as well as any of the crew that she could have afforded it, having saved her shares of loot instead of blowing each steal in Tortuga, but that hadn’t been the case. Once a pirate, always a pirate: she had commandeered it on her lonesome. Jack had always known that she was not to be underestimated; it was only after this thathe realized he had been doing so from the start.

“Difficult to say until one has seen the _Sun_ on the waters,” he said after a time. “Even so…I’d wagershe has surpassed us.”

Mr. Gibbs scoffed and took another generous swig from his flask.

“The _Pearl_ is the fastest ship on these waters. You of _all_ people should know that.”

Jack  smirked as he watched Anamaria storm about the _Sun_ ’s deck, commanding her new crew with the power of a thousand years’ experience as Captain. ~~~~

“A ship’s only as good as her Captain, Mr. Gibbs.”

* * *

 

            When he had asked her if she would miss the crew she rolled her eyes and threw her hands in the air, nothing less than her typical response to his obvious absurdity. _Of course_ she wouldn’t miss the crew. She’d have plenty of Mr. Cottons, Mr. Gibbs, and Martys of her own, in any case.  When he asked her if she might miss him, she avoided the question. ~~~~

“Come on then, love,” he purred “Say you won’t miss ol’ Jackie. I won’t believe it until _you_ say it.”

“What’s to miss? Your lying? Selfishness? Always putting yourself before your crew?”

He grinned, having anticipated such a response.         

“ _Pirate.”_

Anamaria finished her portion of rum and stood up before the stateroom desk.

“You’ve never been any good for me, Jack Sparrow- or _any_ of us, I might say, but it would be less than genteel of me to speak for others, another lesson you’d do well to learn.”

He propped his boots up on the wooden surface and leaned backwards in amusement while Anamaria continued unabated. ~~~~

“I _won’t_ miss having to watch my own back, knowing my Captain won’t be there, despite my having hauled him through every danger.  I _won’t_ miss wondering when my Captain will get his next foolish idea and send us all sailing towards the devil only knows where. I _won’t_ miss splitting what little is left of the loot with the rest of the crew after the Captain has taken far more than his fair share-“

“A fine time for you to air your grievances, Ana. Is _this_ why you are leaving? Because dear old Jack has done you wrong as a Captain?”

His voice was still riddled with a sickening amount of delight at her frustration. She wondered, was it an effort to lighten the situation, or was it simply a lack of insight into her feelings? Was it to him, as most things were, a game of little consequence or meaning? ~~~~

“No,” she insisted. “I _have_ to go. My time is here has come to an end.”

True, her time serving on the _Pearl_ had reached its conclusion, but she also spoke for whatever connection she had with Jack. For too long she had known him, too long had she expected more from him, and too long she had been short-changed. For years she had thought there might have been more to him than anyone else could see. She allowed herself to entertain the idea that they were more alike than they’d fancy to think…but even if Jack Sparrow had some sort of intangible half that was trustworthy, loyal, and by all rights, more like her, it had yet to show its face for any notable amount of time. For this reason, she had to leave. She had to extract Jack Sparrow from her life like a leech from her vein. 

“Very well, then,” he relented, no longer amused by the thrill of the chase. “We both know you had wanted this for some time: a ship to call your own, a crew to command. But know that you will be missed here, sorely.”

_If only he knew_ , thought to herself as she disembarked the _Pearl_ that evening for the very last time. She wondered how it all might have gone if he had known that a chance for her to see the better side of him might have led her to postpone her dream for a few more years in his service. She might have stayed long enough, at least, to properly settle her feelings about him.

But fate had other plans, and so his lack of apparent depth led her to let the whole tangled mess go- _Pearl,_ Jack, crew and all. There was no use in hanging on to hope when there was none to be had; better that she move forward with her plans of Captaincy. Jack was never going to see anything past his own reflection.

Still, the nagging thought remained. If he had known, maybe things would have been different.

Despite herself, she didn’t have the heart to tell him.


	2. Chapter Two

_“A fair trial for Will ends in a hanging.”_

She knew it as well as he did. He knew, somewhere in the dark canals of his soul, that she had been fully aware all along. Elizabeth had always been bright, after all;bright, ambitious, stubborn, and determined, a carbon copy of her mother. While he couldn’t be prouder, hecouldalso curse said traits to the gates of hell. They were going to get her killed.

 

_“Then there is nothing left for you here.”_

 

Any pretenses of hope that he might have mustered for her at an earlier age were gone. She was a woman now, she had already been exposed to the harsh realities of the world and could no longer be comforted by optimistic stories of little pragmatic worth.

 

Heaven knows he had tried his hardest to shield her, to keep hersafe from heartbreak. It was not his wish for her to know anything outside of financial security, happiness, and love- the expected life of a governor’s daughter. Yet, something had gone terribly awry somewhere along the way, what and when he failed to pin-point, and now he found himself tearing her from her lover’s side with no option to the contrary.

 

Needs must in dire situations; he had a duty to own what his daughter had become, as well as withstand her complaints as he forced her back to England.

 

_“Do not ask me to endure the sight of my daughter walking to the gallows. Do not.”_

 

He saw the grimace of pure malice on her face as pulled her, forearm first, from the coach. He tried to avert his eyes, obstinate on staying the course. The ship was here, the captain was ready, and she was going, whether it met with her approval or not. Far be it from him to let one look send the whole plan crumbling.

 

She did not attempt to fight him. He did not hear her weep as the two maneuvered down the length of the dock. No doubt she _was_ doing such a thing, but with clenched teeth and a face of resolve, as unavoidable tears streamed down her cheeks. He refused to let this affect him, instead keeping focus on his daughter’s safety. Someday she would thank him for this, surely. Someday she would realize that this was his last defense as a father to keep her from evil, even if many aspects had still managed to slip in and taint her upbringing. Someday she would know that he, like any parent, only wanted the best for herand she would find it in her heart to forgive him. _Someday_.

 

He could not bring himself to say anything to her as a deckhand took her from his side and led her up the gangplank to the ship. He knew an apology, or worse, an attempted explanation would be brutal. He could not rely on an appeal to reason when he was stripping her of the one she truly loved, with every promise of his imminent execution.

 

_“Take care of her. See to it that she arrives safely at her Uncle’s estate.”_

He whispered his plead to the Captain with haste and a desperation so thick, the other man wouldn’t soon forget it or lessen any efforts to insure the young woman’s safety.

  

Elizabeth disappeared into a stateroom long before the crew had begun preparations to shove off, no doubt from a reluctance to face her treacherous father. It was with heavy heart that he turned and mounted the driver’s seat of the carriage, preparing himself for the next daunting task: saving his own skin, if at all possible.

 

He had only to look up and survey the road aheadto know what his imminent fate had in store for him. The mere sight of that familiar leathery face, riddled with so many scars of indeterminate origin that it resembled the surface of a cliff’s face, sent his stomach plunging, heart in tow.

 

 _“Evening, Gov’nah_. _Where is she?”_

The question was simple enough, and perhaps under better circumstances he would have been able to think up an eloquent response. Presently, his heart was pounding so hard and so loud he swore it might break free.

 

_“Who?”_

His weary body was then yanked from the driver’s seat and slammed into the side of the opposing stagecoach. The cold bite of a dagger’s blade dug into his neck.

 

All of this was inconsequential, it hardly mattered what happened to him. What was important was that Elizabeth was safe, thathe had succeeded in the attempt, if only for the time being. Knowing the impeccable skill of the Captain to whom he had entrusted Elizabeth’s safetyquite well, he was certain they had already gotten a generous head start. Beckett wouldn’t attempt a wild-goose chase on open waters just for a Governor’s daughter. Elizabeth was clear from harm’s path.

 

They could cuff and flay him if they wished. His daughter was free and he wasn’t talking. 

* * *

 

 

 _“_ _My story…is exactly like your story, just one chapter behind.”_

 

That voice, that tenor. Where had heard it before? It sang to some distant memory…or perhaps one a bit more recent.  He could hardly tell anymore, as his sense of past and present had long ago fused to a nearly unintelligible mass. Still, there was a frightening familiarity about this man’s voice, as if it should worry him to hear it. But for _what_ reason?

 

_“I chased a man across the seven seas. The pursuit cost me my crew, my commission, and my life.”_

 

Oh, _right_.

 

There was no time to think, no time to even react to the curious new condition of his old foe. The Commodore (or, _former_ , really) had gone mad with grief, an altogether dangerous state for a man as resolute as James Norrington. His unrestrained intake of alcohol would destroy what little clemency he might have ever retained, not to mention the fact that he was now unattached from the societal values that would restrain him from seeking revenge through cold-blood murder. _Perhaps_ , Jack considered, if he obscured his face with this nearest palm frond and snuck out quietly? Perhaps no one would notice…

* * *

 

 

“ _I nearly had you **all** off Tripoli. I **would** have. If not for that… **hurricane** …”_

 

Anamaria had seen him here countless times before. She had seen him leaning haphazardly on the dock at different intervals of the day, passed out under lampposts, or once and a while, he’d be one of the gentlemen they’d drag out at 3 am. He had been no different from the thousands of others like him, save for the fact that it appeared he onced dressed in finer clothing- a uniform, it seemed. The threads were now irreparably soiled and his powdered wig beneath his tri-corn hat, once a symbol of his status, was matted and torn.

 

She had seen him, but she had never noticed him until the moment he shouted, alerting the rest of the Inn that something was terribly wrong. They hadn’t a real issue with an angry drunk the entire time she had resided here. It seemed inevitable, yet, when the voice arose over all others, scathing and bitter, even _she_ felt anxious shivers coarse down her spine.

 

_“You haven’t said where you’re going. Somewhere… **nice**?” _

 

The sudden clattering of the upturned table shattered any of the calm that remained and the attention of the entire tavern was now on the raucous individual to see what he would do next.

 

_“So am I **worthy** to serve under Captain Jack Sparrow?” _

 

The words seemed to taunt her. It was impossible, wasn’t it? Jack Sparrow couldn’t have sauntered back into her life that quickly. Still, her ears betrayed her; he was here, they insisted, right in this very tavern.

 

_“Or should I just kill you now?”_

 

She couldn’t help but notice her employer searching beneath the counter for his pistol, cursing under his breath at each upturned stone that revealed nothing. The man in the middle of the floor had already pulled out one of his own and aimed it at a figure attempting to hide behind a palm frond. She didn’t need a closer look to know who the target was.

 

_“Sorry,” he replied to whatever it was the palm frond said. “Old habits and all that.”_

 

The resounding click robbed breath from everyone in the area, all unable to overcome their surprise at the rapid turn of events long enough to disarm him.

 

Yet, where there should have been the blast of gun barrel was the click of another pistol and the growl of a woman’s voice.

 

“Drop it.”

* * *

 

Jack parted the waxy leaves of the frond to see the owner of this also strikingly familiar voice who had been his savior. The former Commodore’s six-foot-two frame blocked any sight of her, but he could tell from the disheartened look on his enemy’s stubbled face that his efforts had been successfully thwarted.

 

“ _Drop it,_ I said.”

 

The woman’s insistence and applied pressure of the barrel into the back of Norrington’s neck caused him to drop the weapon like searing hot coal and raise his arms up beside him in a display of submission.

 

“Turn around.”

 

Norrington did so, but refused forfeit his clear irritation at the woman’s interference. As he turned, the identity of Jack’s rescuer was revealed- he was not _in the least bit_ shocked to see his former first-mate standing there, holding a physically-superior man at gun point.

 

“We don’t fight like that here, sailor,” she explained.  “If you’re going kill a man, you have come by it honestly.”

 

The ex-Commodore scoffed for what Jack assumed was an attempt to maintain his dignity and control over the crowd.

 

“Am I _really_ being lectured by a _pirate_ on the etiquette of a fair fight?”

 

Her eyes narrowed as she nudged him in the chest, causing him to stumble backwards a little.

 

“You’re on our stomping grounds, mate. You play by _our_ rules.”

 

The crowd agreed with this statement, nodding their heads and booing the former Commodore for going against their unwritten code of honorable homicide. Norrington, meanwhile, was clearly amused by the whole thing.  

 

“Very well then. I’ll be amenable to this perverted code of ethics so long as my life is being held at arm’s length. _Do tell_ , how might I go about a fair kill of this waste of breath hiding behind a leaf?”

 

Jack couldn’t help but interrupt to remind him and any others listening,

 

“It’s a palm frond!”

 

* * *

 

Anamaria grasped the gold hilt of Norrington’s rapier and yanked it with a swish from its sheath. In a second flat she maneuvered the blade to lie across his collar bone, then, for good measure, pressed the barrel of her gun in between his ribcage.  

 

 “A fine sword, to be sure…” She surveyed the blade and then glanced back up at him, appreciating his attempt to hide his obvious fear with feigned apathy. It seemed she was a bit more than he had bargained for. “I take it you’re a decent fencer?”

 

The crowd waited with bated breath for Norrington’s reply, curious to see how he would meet her challenge. As if in a final attempt to regain his audience’s awe, he grasped the wrist of her hand that held the rapier, then jerked her in closer to him so that she could better smell his lack of proper hygiene and see his jaws clenched tighter than a spring. Her sudden intake of breath was impossible to stifle, but her face remained stone still, unaffected by his actions. Did he think she had never been manhandled before?

 

“I’ll show you _decent_ , madam.” 

 

After withdrawing the blade from her clutches, he spun around to face his nemesis in a full preparatory stance…only to find that the palm frond and the man behind it were nowhere to be seen. Gone too was Mr. Gibbs, who had been quivering behind the upturned table the entire time. Norrington cursed and demanded the whereabouts of the coward while Anamaria wondered how she could’ve let herself become a diversion.

 

Norrington’s sword did not become superfluous however, as it was then matched by the newest members of Jack’s crew and anyone else in the surrounding area that wanted to fight. The band, as if on cue, started up the tune to a merry jig and things went back to normal, save for some of her fellow barmaids that were now wrestling each other on the floor, girdles popping.          

 

And just like that, her role in this strange charade seemed to have come to an end- Jack Sparrow had once more ducked out of her life as quickly as he had come. She would have liked to let the matter go, to return to her duties and forget the whole ordeal.

 

But as she observed the former naval officer in his slovenly, if not admirable attempt to fight back the overwhelming number of pirates that had now pushed him back against a wooden post in the center of the room, Anamaria realized that she was _not_ in the clear. Once a pirate, always a pirate.

 

With little thought to the matter, she grabbed a long forgotten bottle from a nearby table and weaved her way through the lumbering bodies, sneaking up behind the man with all the stealth of a shark- though she was quite sure that he was occupied enough to not take the slightest notice of her presence in any case.

 

_“Come on, who wants some?” he roared like a cornered lion, doomed to die but determined not to lose his pride in forfeit. “Form an orderly line, I’ll have you all one by one!”_

 

That was enough. Claim by claim, threat by threat, the man’s pride was slipping through his fingers like sand and he was either too dense or too blind by his own self-perception to heed it. Unsure of whether she was rescuing him from death or total embarrassment by doing so, Anamaria raised the rum bottle high into the air and let it down on the back of his wigged head with a satisfying smash, sending him plummeting to the wooden floor.

 

When the sudden shatter of glass returned the crowd to the previous state of speechlessness, Anamaria explained with a shrug,  

 

_“I just wanted the pleasure of doing that myself!”_


	3. Chapter Three

When had it come to this?

 

What could he have done to deserve being tossed in a bed of hog filth, like so many useless scraps of kitchen fodder? When had his sword, a prized symbol of his naval honor, been replaced by a bottle of rum?

 

When had the fates decreed that James Norrington deserved to be a perpetually unhappy man? 

 

He couldn’t bring himself to rise from the mire after having landed with a most ungraceful _plop,_ choosing instead to embrace his fate. Indeed, if he was fortunate the submergence of his face would be enough to drown him.

 

The ring of mocking laughter began to fade as the pirates retreated back into the bar, the only death knell it seemed he would know. For what purpose did he still maintain to live? Who remained that would care or even notice if the world was short one ruined man?

 

May he exit the world fully immersed in the literal result of his foolishness and lament every moment until mud filled his lungs.

* * *

 

 

The cold sludge of the sty seeped through the fibers of her dress as she knelt beside him. Her movements were slow and deliberate as she extended hands to his shoulders.

 

She managed to lift the upper portion of his body from the strong suction and this lead him to sudden, jarring coughs as he expelled the filth from his air passages.

 

She hadn’t given much thought to the probable outcome of helping the man she had subdued with a broken rum bottle- or, even more disturbing, _why_ she would go to the trouble in the first place. Perhaps the pull of sympathy had been too great and what remained of the strong, resolute wall around her heart had collapsed with the cushioning happiness of her life in Tortuga. Perhaps it came from a need to get as far away from piracy as she could. Assisting the same sort of man that would’ve had her strung up for her crimes naught but a year ago was _certainly_ a good place to start.

 

His convulsing stopped as he turned his head to see who had aided him and, as a natural consequence, their eyes met.

 

She wasn’t sure if the moment caught them both by surprise but it certainly did her. Beneath the layers of coagulated muck was a gaze so genuine in its sadness that her breath all but caught in her throat. For whatever there had been of the man in the tavern there was no sign of him in this moment- only his defeat and _crushing_ shame.

 

“What are _you_ doing here?” he demanded to know, his voice still clinging to pride even as his eyes betrayed him.

 

She sighed as she pulled him to his feet.  

 

“You _foolish_ man.”

* * *

 

 

The last thing he expected was compassion, so it was to his utmost surprise that he felt himself being pulled out of his filthy grave.  He cleared his lungs with some ado and then turned his head to see who in the world could’ve been responsible for such an arbitrary act of charity.

 

Arbitrary _indeed_. Was that not the woman that had challenged him? The one that had thwarted his attempt to kill the man responsible for ruining his life? He had thought for _certain_ that she was some accomplice of Sparrow’s, a pirate just the same that stood to benefit from staying in his good graces.

 

This was beyond him. Worst still, he did _not_ want to be seen in such a state and wished she had just left him be.

 

“What are _you_ doing here?”

 

The woman sighed as she began efforts to help him up.

 

“You _foolish_ man.”

 

Secretly, he agreed. It required only the truest of idiots to be coarse with the one soul that chose to show kindness out of a multitude of those that would’ve left him to die. He knew this well, but was bound too tightly by pride to apologize.

 

The woman pulled his arm over her shoulders and rose from the muck, hauling him to his feet with her. Even with her support he found the effort of standing somewhat challenging and so he grabbed on to a nearby beam.

 

“You don’t have to do this.”

 

His voice was softer now, intentionally so. This was as close to a proper ‘thank you’ that James could allow himself to be under the circumstances.

 

“You’d be horrible feed for the pigs, mate,” she said with a halfhearted smirk.

* * *

 

The pair lumbered down the cobbled streets of Tortuga for some amount of time, nothing spoken save for the labored breathing of their efforts. They had agreed beforehand that she would take him to the _Pearl_ and she promised herself that she would depart before she could even get a whiff of Jack (the familiar stench of musk and alcohol).

 

“What’s your name, miss?”

 

The timing of the man’s question caught her off guard and hung between them for a few tense moments while she hesitated to answer. She wasn’t averse to telling him, she just couldn’t see the point of doing so. Of what consequence were they to each other?

 

“I’m James Norrington,” he said anyway. “Former Commodore of the British Royal Navy… currently drunk…though I needn’t tell _you_ that last bit.”

 

He then lurched forwards, requiring her to grab a handful of the fabric of his coat and yank him upwards.

 

“Anamaria- former Captain, current sot-support, _apparently_.”

 

He leaned back over her shoulder as he downed another gulp of rum. She hadn’t a clue where he had acquired the bottle.

 

“That’senough of _that_ , Mr. Norrington,” She pulled the bottle from his grasp poured what was left onto the cobblestone.

 

He waved off the title with an ungainly swipe of the hand.

 

“Oh please, none of this _Mr. Norrington_ business. I’m no more worth a _Mr._ than a criminal’s worth a-“

 

The sentence was cut short as he broke from her arm and ran to the side of a stone bridge that stood just before them in their path.  He staggered and tripped the entire way, keeping one hand planted over his mouth. She laughed at the sight of him, even as she stood nearby to make sure he didn’t pitch over the side.

 

The vomiting stopped eventually and she assisted in turning him on his back to lean against the stone and have a momentary rest. Playing nursemaid to a drunken wretch wasn’t what she had in mind when she went to his aid at the sty, but she supposed she only had her lack of foresight to blame for that.

 

“You know, it occurs…perhaps I’ll call you Miss Ana…? That sounds rather respectable, don’t you think?”

 

She wrinkled her nose in distaste, a smile betraying the fact that she was enjoying his company even if she _really_ shouldn’t have been.   

 

“No, it doesn’t suit. I’m many things, but not a _Miss._ Never that.”

 

“Well, I can’t very well call you _Anamaria_ all the time, now can I?”

 

She shrugged. “And why not? Everyone else does.”

 

He turned over on to his elbows with no small amount of care (no doubt to avoid toppling over) and fixed her with an incredulous look, as if he couldn’t imagine that she hadn’t ever been made aware to this truth of her own name.

 

“Well, it’s-…it’s rather _long_ , isn’t it?  

 

Anamaria laughed so hard her head tipped back. He was really just _so_ pretentious.

 

“You mean to tell me _Norrington_ is concise? I am every bit as entitled to my name as you are to yours- and if you can’t struggle your way through it, you’ve no business addressing me.”

 

His eyes widened for a moment –for as much as she could see beneath the filth that covered him- but then he shrugged in agreement. She imagined he was impressed with her forthrightness, as he should have been.

 

“The point is rather moot, anyway. You won’t be seeing me again after tonight.”

 

She surprised him once again by throwing his arm over her shoulder and pulling him back to his feet. The time had come for them to press onward.

 

“How do you figure that?” He was unconvinced for some reason. “You don’t _really_ expect me to believe you were just acting out of the goodness of your own heart, do you? I think we both know you’re hoping for the opportunity to return to sea.”

 

His accusation startled her. He _couldn’t_ have known what it meant to make this suggestion…but for as logically as she knew this to be the case, it was no less jarring. How _dare_ he say such a thing?

 

“ _No_.” Her voice was firm.  “I’m only dropping you off, just as we agreed.”

 

 James just laughed, a frustrating little giggle from the back of his throat.

 

“Time will tell.”

 

Anamaria considered letting him go stagger off a dock.


	4. Chapter Four

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I will get the formatting of these chapters right eventually, I hope.

Even as the smacks of knuckles to flesh rang out through his office Lord Beckett’s expression remained unflinchingly indifferent. The whole of his attention was devoted to the papers on his desk, the map on the wall, his feather quills, and any other practical concerns. Had one not known better they might have thought he had no idea of what was happening to the man strapped in the chair before him.

“Thank you, Mercer, that will suffice.”

Mercer dropped his fists and stepped back as though nothing had happened.

Beckett dabbed his quill once more in the inkwell and continued his work on the document before him. The scribbling of the pen tip to the piece of parchment filled the dank room with the abrasive scratch of metal.

“Governor Swann,” he said over his work as though cordially addressing a business associate. “I do hope I’ve made my point clear.”

The Governor rolled his head upwards from where he had let it fall between his shoulders in exhaustion. The metallic tang of blood rested on his tongue, dripping out from the corners of his mouth and seeping between the cracks of his parched lips.

“…transparently.”

 “Then…might I assume you are prepared to talk?”

The Governor rolled his jaw and stared at the curled patterns of the Persian rug beneath his feet.

“… _no_.”  

There was a tense pause before Lord Beckett sighed and pushed his chair out from behind his desk. He sucked his teeth as he rose and made his way around, leaned against the edge of the desk and crossed his arms over his chest.  He surveyed Governor Swann with that perpetual air of mocking delight, one corner of his mouth turned upwards in a sneer.

“It seems my methods of persuasion have been ineffective against you, Governor, despite their overwhelming rate of success in the past. There are so few who won’t loosen their lips after meeting Mercer’s fist.  I applaud your resilience.”

Clutching his hands behind his back he then began circling the Governor’s chair, not wholly unlike a vulture eying a carcass.

“ **Unfortunately** , this act of decided heroism will not aid you in the end. It would be not only in your best interest, but _Miss Swann’s_ as well, to admit her whereabouts.”

Weatherby Swann only laughed, born out of amusement of Lord Beckett’s apparent ignorance of Elizabeth’s destination and an immense sense of relief as a result of this.

“Save yourself the time and kill me now. I won’t tell you anything.”

Beckett reeled back from the subdued man with a bemused curiosity, as though he were evaluating a painting or some such thing.

“And yet you find this humorous…now _why_ might that be? Perhaps you think I haven’t a clue where your daughter is. Perhaps you think you have some power over me in this way.”

Now it was Beckett’s turn to chuckle, a sound that caused both nausea and dread to bubble in the pit of Weatherby’s stomach.

 “Allow me to make it _abundantly_ clear that I know full well where your daughter is headed and have no personal qualms with diverting the route of a few of my ships. They happen to already be on the hunt for a few other offenders of the crown - Jack Sparrow’s crew, to be specific, and have explicit orders to _dispense justice_ at will.”

The older man willed himself to meet with Beckett’s eyes- both, a frigid, opaque shade of silver. Reminiscent of small gray stones, they were just as impenetrable and equally as unyielding.

Perhaps Lord Beckett could have been written off as merely spoiled, accustom to always having gotten his way and never taught the concept of others before one’s self...but the Governor knew better. A child praised excessively with gifts and not enough with real, human affection might do detestable things as an adult for attention, but never with the amount of disinterest and cunning craftsmanship as Beckett; there was a merciless evil in him. He was a man incapable of being affected by the emotions of others, including an ability to take gratification in the enemy’s affliction, physical or otherwise.

This only made him all the more horrifying.

“ _Dispense Justice?_ ” The Governor repeated. “By cutlass and cannonade, no doubt.”

Beckett’s perverse smirk grew to a full grin.

“Very good, Governor. You’re learning quickly.”

Governor Swann jerked his head away, unable to keep sight of such an unfeeling gaze any longer. He finally relented,  

“ _What do you want from me?_ ”        

Beckett took the time to pour himself a drink and down it without even a slight grimace from the up-burn before answering.

“ _You authority as governor, your influence in London, and your loyalty…to the East India Trading Company,”_ was his answer, as he was still fully engrossed in the effort of pouring himself another glass. “Oh, _right_ , nearly forgot…”

Beckett took a parchment from the center of the desk and unraveled it in his free hand with no small amount of flair.

“I, Governor Weatherby Swann,” he read as he began to saunter and strut about the room like one might at a party. “Do hereby state my full, consensual assistance in the deflection of fugitives of justice and do thereby announce my status as a guilty party. I now formally resign my fate to the wisdom of the Court of England.” 

The Governor was confused. “ _Fugitives?_ I assisted none but my daughter.”

“ _Did you_? It would seem you were fully aware of Mr. Turner’s escape and made no attempt to stop him.”

“William _left_ on your behalf!” Weatherby all but screamed. “You had an agreement!”

The shorter man downed the second drink.

“Regrettably, Mr. Turner made no point of acquiring physical evidence of this exchange, such as a document in ink. Pen and parchment are the lifeblood of the East India, I’m afraid.”

Bekcett placed the glass down on the mahogany surface of his desk with a resounding _clunk_.

The Governor found the urge to not writhe and thrash in his chair very difficult to stifle. He knew it would be for naught, but the overwhelming need to do _something_ had begun to overtake him and so he tugged at the secure bonds on his wrist and forearms, hoping the tight seal might loosen.

Lord Beckett, on the other hand, wasn’t in the least bit deterred.

“Governor Swann, what happens to your daughter is of little consequence to me, dead _or_ alive. The course of her fate is entirely at _your_ discretion.”

He extended the parchment forward with the promise, “ _Sign_ , and I will have seen nothing.”

Weatherby was forced to consider the offer, horrible though it may have been. What other choice did he have? Still, he would not be gotten the best of so easily. If Beckett was intent on coercion he would have to stay the course.    

“Am I to believe that I am signing a confession to _earn_ my own freedom as well as Elizabeth’s? I have no reason to trust this, or you.”

Beckett cocked his head to the side and Weatherby could not tell if he was frustrated or amused, difficult as the man was to read.

“Yet on the other hand, you doom yourself and your daughter to certain death if you refuse. As I’ve said, the decision lies with you.”

Governor Swann knew full-well that Cutler Beckett would postpone his death and even his conviction until he had achieved the influence he needed in England.  If the Governor was convicted of heresy he would lose his position as a reliable advocate to the King; if he was dead, he would be of absolutely no use at all to Beckett, and so both of these threats became idle. However, there was nothing keeping him from carrying out Elizabeth’s execution at any given point- as such, the solution was quite clear. Weatherby expected that once his usefulness came to an end Beckett would either present the well-preserved confession or skip a step entirely and execute his assassination, probably the latter. It mattered not. From the moment he had assisted his daughter’s escape the Governor had resigned himself to the possibility of death, an ultimately small price to pay.

“ _Do what you can for my daughter.”_

Beckett nodded to Mercer whose presence in the corner of the room had nearly been forgotten altogether. The sharp _snick_ of a pocket knife seemed to reverberate off the walls of the office as he approached the back of Governor Swann’s chair.

 _“Shall I remove these ropes?”_   

* * *

 

“Have to admit I didn’t expect seein’ Anamaria,” Gibbs said as he passed a crate onto Pintel. “Especially in her _newest_ line of work.”

Jack made no effort to assist in the transfer of supplies, as was typical of him before embarking. He was _Captain_ , after all. Instead, he stood in his characteristic swagger beside the pile of cargo, occupying himself with the compass that still refused to point in any definite direction.

“I’m not all together certain we’ll be leaving tonight after all, Mr. Gibbs,” Jack replied, pointedly neglecting to address what had been said. “I have yet to achieve a dependable reading…”

Mr. Gibbs released himself from the work as more of the crew members began to pour into the docking bay. The Captain needed counsel in this trying time- as did his neglected flask.  

“I doubt the crew will be pleased to hear that. We’d probably be best shovin’ off anyway. Perhaps the sea winds will clear your head enough to make that confounded tool useful.”

Jack shut the compass with a loud clap, betraying his usual cool in light of this undeniable frustration. He had been tasked with the impossible and couldn’t even sort his thoughts enough to get a compass to point in a specific direction. Perhaps he truly was one of the _worst_ pirates.

“Eh, Jack,” Mr. Gibbs attempted again. “About Anamaria…you don’t find it strange that the _last_ time we saw her she was Captain of her own crew and now we’ve found her again in Tortuga working as tavern wench?”

Jack slipped the compass back within his inner breast pocket. “Not all. Our dear Anamaria has just lost interest in her former career.”

He strolled over to an opened crate of apples, turning one over in his hand to inspect it as he explained, “Y’see, It takes a certain _je ne sais quoi_ to Captain a ship, Mr. Gibbs, and I’m not _entirely_ sure Anamaria had it.”

The rather cruel assessment was quite the departure from how he had felt before…but if he was honest about his feelings (it was certain he wouldn’t be), Jack had felt more than a little slighted when Anamaria left. The sting of rejection had only grown in the time she’d been away, leaving him to wax bitter over the idea that maybe she thought herself better than him.   

“And what would _that_ be, Mr. Sparrow?”

The two men spun around on their heels to face the direction of the voice. Upon seeing Anamaria standing before them, arms crossed tightly over her chest, Jack’s grip slackened and he dropped the apple while Mr. Gibbs took another nip from his flask.

Jack managed to recover in enough time to throw his hands in the air and exclaim with forced delight, “Anamaria! How remarkably fortuitous that we should meet again!”

She swatted his outstretched arms away like so many gnats before him. “I’m _not_ here for pleasantries, Jack, just a delivery. I do believe he’s yours, for all legal intents.” 

Jack swung his head around Anamaria’s shoulder to get a better look at the newest member of the crew, currently scrambling for support on a barrel. He could only scowl in disgust, wondering why in the world he would have hired such an ill-begotten wretch, the stench and outward appearance of whom put any pirate to shame. Of course, he had selectively forgotten being held at gunpoint.

“Y _ou look bloody awful, mate,”_ he pointed out as if no one else was aware.  “ _What are you doing here?”_

 “ _You hired me,”_ Norrington reminded him. “ _I can’t help it if your standards are lax.”_

Jack wasn’t all together pleased with the fact that this made Anamaria chuckle under her breath. As such, he fired back with a somewhat ineffective,

 _“You smell funny.”_  

“ _Jack_ ,” Anamaria placed firm hand on his shoulder so as to earn his full attention. “I need to make it clear that I came here to deposit Norrington and _nothing more_. I’ll be going back to my work just as soon as he’s secure, so don’t get any ideas.”  

Unfortunately, it was in this moment that Jack began doing exactly that, the cogs in his head turning as per making the compass respond. Anamaria was very resolute, wasn’t she? Indeed, she had always been one of the most stubborn and determined people he’d ever had the pleasure of knowing. When her mind was made up, _that was that_. If there was _anyone_ who could get his compass moving in a specific direction, he reckoned it’d be her…well, out of those available to him; it was a safe bet that the compass in Norrington’s or Gibbs’ hands would simply point to the nearest source of libation.

With one of his wickedly charming grins, Jack challenged her. “I think you should ask yourself, love… _is that really what you want most?_ To work as a bar wench in Tortuga for the rest of your life? To serve _gentleman_ their ale as they paw at you where they please?”

She rolled her eyes and shifted in her discomfort and he could tell he was making progress.

“I thought I told you not to get any ideas- that _included_ trying to enlist me in one of your half-baked schemes.”  

 “ _Because I would think,”_ he continued unfettered. “You’d want to find a way to restore your captaincy. Come now, dear, I think we _both_ know you didn’t make this switch of profession by choice. ”

Even in the near darkness of the dock he could see her jaw flex in warning. He had overstepped into vulnerable territory and that was _exactly_ as he intended. Jack had always been adept at pushing Anamaria’s buttons, in more ways than one.

 “And what would your **broken compass** have to do with a ship for me?”

Her tone was dismissive but he knew how to read between her lines: she was curious, despite her better judgment.

“It has _everything_ to do with you and your ship. What do you know of Davy Jones?”

It was at this point that the ex-Commodore seemed to feel his feedback was warranted, slurring out an incredulous,

“ _Oh please. The **Captain** of the Flying Dutchman?” _

“More than likely sailor superstition,” she agreed. “A _myth_. But yes, I’m more than familiar. I’m also curious to see where this disjointed line of thought leads us, Sparrow.”

Nevermind, he supposed, that she and everyone present had been witness to the undead curse of Barbossa and his crew. A band of skeleton pirates was all well and good, but the line of reason just had to be drawn _somewhere_ , hadn’t it? Bloody skeptics. He would have brought up said point had it not slowed down the course of his plan.

 “Then you are aware of the chest, correct?”

Norrington sighed, “ _Oh, dear…”_

  “ _Of course_ I’m aware. You can’t navigate these waters very long without hearing the story several thousand times. The chest of unknown size and origin what contains-“

“- _the still beating heart of Davy Jones. Precisely.”_

Jack took her hands in his own –earning him another of her warning glances- and placed the compass in her palms.   

“This compass, contrary to common belief, is in fact, quite unique.”

Norrington scoffed, “ _Unique here having the_ _meaning of broken.”_  

It required most of Jack’s patience not to take out his pistol and do away with the former Commodore right then and there. He reckoned he probably would’ve been doing the other man just as much of a favor. 

“ _True enough,”_ Jack admitted. “ _This compass does **not** point north. It points to the thing you want most in this world.” _

His tone was chosen special for the occasion- soft, gentle. Jack prided himself on knowing Anamaria more intimately than most, he _knew_ the sort of voice that left her open suggestion. Evidence of his success was that she tore her gaze from his.  

 “ _You don’t **actually** believe him, do you?”_ Norrington pressed in a somewhat sobering tone of voice.

“ **Absolutely** not.” She shifted her weight and looked out to sea, considering. “If the myth of The Flying Dutchman were real I see no reason why I wouldn’t also be a Duchess or Queen or some such thing by now. But I’m not, the world is a much harsher reality. Once a pirate, always a pirate. My glory will be in my captaincy…and I realize I haven’t much of a chance getting it back here.”  

Jack’s grinned widened.

“Then it is your responsibility to find that which you want _most of all…_ which, in this case, is to find the chest of Davy Jones so that you may be granted the ship and crew of a pirate Captain’s wildest dreams. Yes. Think on that, dear.”

And so he left that with her and scampered off behind a barrel, a precaution to ensure he didn’t influence the course of the heading. Skeptical though she may have been about the whole thing, Anamaria kept her gaze fixed on the arrow as it jittered and spun about, Norrington peering over her shoulder with same amount of curiosity, despite himself. Around and around the arrow went until _finally_ , against all odds, it settled on a heading. Evidence of this was in the fact that both Anamaria and the former Commodore’s mouths fell open, both of them looking over at Jack as if he had just pulled a rabbit from his hat.

 “ _Mr. Gibbs!”_ he announced triumphantly, jumping out from behind the barrel. “ _We have our heading!”_


End file.
